Promises
by TheBladedancer
Summary: Not once has Jarlaxle broken a promise...but will this one make him change his mind?
1. My Conscience's Disclaimer

Fellow Fanfiction Fanatics:

Ever wondered that age-old question of "How _does_ Aithne write at four o'clock in the morning?" Well, the answers are here!

I was bored again and this was just before I started back into writing my novel, so the only thing I was able to write was Forgotten Realms fanfictions. (Meaning roughly, that right now I have about five short stories on my computer – nearly all Forgotten Realms material.)

'Promises' is my favorite of the short stories, dealing with Jarlaxle and a few others of Salvatore's characters. I'll be posting the rest of the chapters soon, once I proof them.

And lastly, none of the characters here are mine. They belong to the writing-mastermind R. A. Salvatore and Wizards of the Coast. I am a mere fanfiction writer who was caffeine-high and writing random short stories at four in the morning. (Oh ha!)

Enjoy the story, everyone!

~Aithne (TheBladedancer)


	2. Roads of the Surface

Chapter I  
  
Jarlaxle always kept his promises.  
  
Not much else was certain in life, but one could not find a single incident where Jarlaxle the mercenary had not held true to a promise he had made. Granted, Jarlaxle often found ways to slide past promises that he did not want to keep, dodging them by loopholes and such, but never in his entire life had Jarlaxle broken a promise.  
  
This is almost asking a bit too much, Jarlaxle grumbled in his thoughts. He kept the brim of his large and colorful hat low so that his face was hidden from the glares of the surface sun and the people that he passed. Both were equally blazing.  
  
"Never were the people to accept new things," Jarlaxle muttered under his breath, glancing at the men and women who had stopped in their work just to stare at the mercenary as he passed down the road. The merchant caravan had stopped dead at the very sight of him, even their horses eyeing him with a sudden cruelty.  
  
Jarlaxle's flowing cloak of colors rippled behind him as he walked, offering added protection to the stares of the people. Any lesser man would have buckled at the attention he was being given.  
  
Fortunately for Jarlaxle, he was a drow - not a man - and the cocky mercenary thrived when given attention such as this.  
  
The silence on the road Jarlaxle now walked was deafening. He kept his feet rolling, always landing on the balls of his feet in his perfect balance. He turned his head to the side and saw a small girl child staring at him questionably.  
  
Jarlaxle smiled calmly and gave her a wave. She screamed in fight.  
  
Instantly the entire caravan seemed to burst with life. Men appeared with swords drawn and woman stood protectively beside their children.  
  
"Well, damn," Jarlaxle sighed, stopping his walk and turning to face the men that were merging at his back.  
  
"I mean no harm to any of you," he announced loudly. The men gave each other uncertain glances at the sound of his voice. He spoke the Common Tongue perfectly. "I only mean to use this road to travel, nothing more."  
  
"Travel where, drow?" one of the men yelled angrily. "To bring others and attack our towns?"  
  
Jarlaxle waved away such foolishness with his hand. "I would do nothing of the sort," he promised them.  
  
The men did not seem comforted, but they were silent. After a moment of completely stillness, Jarlaxle turned, feeling quite certain that they would not attack him while his back was to them. They were men of the surface, and here in their world of light, honor did exist.  
  
Jarlaxle's walk was brisk as he put the distance between him and the people of the merchant caravan. He had places to be, after all, and there was little time to waste. His duties to the Bregan D'aerthe were trying in the times of late and there was much that required his attention. But at the moment, there was another quest for the mercenary of Menzoberranzan, although he was uneager to journey to this foreign surface world for so long.  
  
But, Jarlaxle does not break his promise. 


	3. Muses in the Dark

Chapter II  
  
Jarlaxle lay on his back on the cold ground, the soil a bed for the mercenary. His hand brushed through the grass beneath him, and he smiled.  
  
How he wished such everyday luxuries of the surface existed in his city of shadows. He loved the feel of blades of green grass between his fingers. But they were for the surface world. Such things as grass did not exist in places where evil would trod over them.  
  
The stars shone above him, fires of a heavenly light so far above. The moon was only a sliver in the sky, a silver crest to hang over him in some protection from the innocence of the surface.  
  
"Almost a shame I won't be staying here long," Jarlaxle hummed quietly. He twirled one of his many rings around his finger lazily. The gems of the ring - a small sparkling emerald encircled by diamonds - seemed to dance in the glow of the moon.  
  
Jarlaxle sighed loudly, letting all of his unspoken desires float into the air and dissolve into nothingness. His home was in Menzoberranzan, the city of the drow. He was the leader of the Bregan D'aerthe! That was where he belonged. Not here. Not on this surface paradise where the sun danced and happiness grew in the form of grass and trees.  
  
He sat up and grabbed the leather map he had brought with him, trying to order his wandering mind to focus. Silverymoon was where he needed to be, and the sooner the better, as far as Jarlaxle was concerned. There were narcotics in the air in this world to make him want to stay where he did not belong.  
  
"A day's more travel," Jarlaxle told himself. "Then it's back home."  
  
Good, an inner voice replied smugly.  
  
Why didn't Jarlaxle share the voice's sentiments?  
  
*** *** ***  
  
He waited for the cover of the night, the time of the day most akin to his normal way of living. Only when the sun had faded and the moon had risen overhead did Jarlaxle move towards the towering wall that surrounded the city called Silverymoon.  
  
For a common thief, the wall would have given much trouble, but to a skilled and dexterous drow, the wall was a meager thing to cross indeed. Within minutes, Jarlaxle was already on the other side, dusting his hands proudly.  
  
He walked down the street, his head down, but his senses as alert as ever. He was wandering the alleyways of a city; caution was always necessary. Still, Jarlaxle kept his fast pace, knowing full well that the quicker he returned to Menzoberranzan, the more comfortable he would feel. This promise of his was taking too much out of his precious time.  
  
Jarlaxle's face was grim as he made a turn down a darker street. The moon passed behind a black cloud of mist, the veil blocking the light completely. But Jarlaxle needed no light to see.  
  
Moments passed in silence, only the near-silent breathing of the drow mercenary keeping in time with his footfalls. He kept walking without turning once, even as he heard the quiet, quick steps of the approaching thief.  
  
The slight figure darted past Jarlaxle, practiced fingers immediately reaching to grab the purse that hung at Jarlaxle's beltloop. The drow smiled to himself as he reached out and grabbed the collar of the thief. He might not be from the surface, but he knew their ways well enough.  
  
"Sir!" the thief squealed. Jarlaxle pulled the collar away from him so that he could see the robber's face. A street urchin, no more than a boy. The boy's eyes went wide at the sight of the drow.  
  
"Let me go!" he cried out, as loudly as he could.  
  
Jarlaxle didn't argue, dropping the boy to the ground. Startled, the boy did not move. "My coins?" Jarlaxle asked patiently, holding out his hand.  
  
The urchin didn't hesitate before placing the leather satchel into Jarlaxle's ebony hand. The drow smiled again, whisking his hat off in a polite bow.  
  
"Might I ask you a favor?" the mercenary asked. The boy looked at the drow, unable to speak. How could he refuse? 


	4. Drow Within

Chapter III  
  
He slept without waking, a surprise for Jarlaxle who stood just beyond the door of the inn's room. Could it be that Drizzt Do'Urden was able to be caught at unawares?  
  
Has the surface world deafened his drow senses? Jarlaxle wondered, watching the drow sleeping in the bed with interest. Had Drizzt grown away from the stealth of their people? Or was it just that Jarlaxle had been too quiet to be detected in the quiet night of Silverymoon?  
  
I haven't lost my touch, Jarlaxle snickered in his mind, a grin appearing on his face. Drizzt turned in his sleep, causing Jarlaxle's smile to fade and his hand to shoot to the doorknob.  
  
Drizzt could never know that he had been here. Never. To know that drow still an interest in his life - even it just be Jarlaxle.the effects would be disastrous.  
  
Best that he not know, the mercenary hummed, nodding in consent to his silent proclamation. He still has much to live. Why force him to waste that time watching out for the daggers of his past?  
  
But Jarlaxle knew that Drizzt, and all drow, would continue to watch for those daggers. It were those who hid from their past that died from it. Drizzt would never be free of the horrors he witnessed in Menzoberranzan. The best the young ranger could hope for was to live on, accepting them as part of him.  
  
And he has, Jarlaxle noted. He's changed.  
  
And truly he had. If Drizzt had stayed in Menzoberranzan, he would have been tormented by the same nightmares Zaknafein had been troubled with. He would have been cursed a thousand times over by Lloth, and there would have been nothing he could have done about it.  
  
Except he had done something. Drizzt Do'Urden had left.  
  
Eh, there was too much sympathy in that one to last in Menzoberranzan anyway, Jarlaxle thought wisely. It's best that he came to the surface.  
  
Jarlaxle sighed quietly in the corner of the room. Drizzt stirred, but he did not wake.  
  
Perhaps he has lost the drow in him.. Jarlaxle shook his head, the plume of his hat swaying in the movement. Never, especially from a warrior.  
  
The mercenary looked out of the window of Drizzt's room. It would be dawn soon and Drizzt along with his companions in the joining rooms would wake. They would continue their adventures in the sun-world while Jarlaxle traveled home to his darker realm.  
  
So be it then, Jarlaxle concluded in his mind, his lips thinning in his grim decisiveness. He turned away, heading towards the door. "This promise has been kept," he whispered to himself.  
  
"What promise, Jarlaxle?"  
  
The mercenary's eyes snapped to the figure in the bed. He hadn't even realized that he had spoken the words aloud. Perhaps it was actually he who was getting careless..  
  
Some part of the cocky Jarlaxle wanted to laugh at the thought.  
  
Drizzt's lavender eyes found Jarlaxle's own and held them. The mercenary gave the Do'Urden warrior a welcoming smile, but Drizzt saw the sadness in it, hidden nearly completely by the fanfare of his cloak and jewelry and hat.  
  
"I made a promise to your father," Jarlaxle told him matter-of-factly. "If something should ever happen to him in a battle or otherwise, that I would happen to look in on you.from time to time, of course."  
  
Drizzt said nothing, not sure how to reply to such words. Jarlaxle didn't expect him to.  
  
"I must be leaving now, but it is good to see you doing well," Jarlaxle said to the young drow, surprising even himself with his honesty. He opened the door and pulled it open. He was about to step into the hallway and close the door, when he paused.  
  
"Your father would have been very proud of you, Drizzt Do'Urden," Jarlaxle added just before he disappeared, leaving a still-silent Drizzt behind, puzzling over the mercenary's words..  
  
And in the morning when the sun had risen, Drizzt wondered if he had imagined the entire affair. Perhaps his conversation with Jarlaxle had only been a dream sent by whatever gods rule over the night or just his imagination bringing back the people of his past.  
  
Whatever the reason, Drizzt had no proof. Even the locks of the door had been redone just has he had had them locked when he went to bed the night before.  
  
The tiny purple strands left from the feather of a diatryma bird went unseen in the morning light, later to be gently blown under the bed of the inn, never noticed by any mortal's eyes. 


End file.
